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Being with Ruth Jamieson is as settled as Idgie Threadgoode is ever going to get.
She has everything someone settled for the rest of their life should have: a home to crawl back to when she’s done taking Grady’s money down at the riverfront, a business that makes more money than any other place in town, a kid who looks up at her to learn how to throw a baseball, and a woman who waits up for her until the morning.
Settled never sounded so good; never sounded this way when her sister would write home about her married life.
Ruth looks up from behind the counter, her brow furrowed and her mouth forming what Idgie is sure to be another “Idgie Threadgoode, if I catch you…” lecture. The blonde smiles and dips under the countertop, sidling up next to Ruth, taking the pie plate out of her hand.
“What are you doing?”
Idgie just gives Ruth her best devil-may-care grin and traps the taller woman against the counter, seeing Ruth’s eyes flash in the solitary light near the door.
Night has settled on Whistle Stop and Idgie has settled in Ruth Jamieson’s home, content to put away her tendencies and instincts telling her to run until Ruth gives her a reason to pull them out again, which doesn’t seem likely until eternity is over.
“I might love you ‘til the day I die,” she whispers, the darkness swallowing her words as soon as the leave her lips.
Ruth’s mouth quirks up and she smiles at Idgie like she knew that already. Slim fingers slide around Idgie’s waist, grabbing at her shirt.
It doesn’t feel like she’s being held down because she knows she could break the hold any time she wants; knows that Ruth holds all the cards, but she lets Idgie play them; knows that she can leave but she can always come back.
Ruth Jamieson won’t ever hold her back, and Idgie isn’t planning on letting go any time soon.
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Being with Idgie Threadgoode is as free as Ruth Jamieson is ever going to get.
Her whole life has been constructed in concrete, with set plans and instructions to be followed and men to obey, but Idgie, her Bee Charmer, has picked the lock around her heart and set her at the edge of wild and told her find her way back.
She stumbled and fell behind and skinned her knee a time or two, trying to follow Idgie’s pace, but the blonde always circled back and picked her up; always made sure Ruth knew the way back to the beaten path, if she wanted to turn around.
Ruth wanted to tell Idgie, “you’re beating down a path in front of me. I’ll follow that one,” but the words get lost in between glances over plates drowning in barbeque sauce, poorly shed tears for Buddy Jr. and his lost limb, and Grady’s yells for Idgie to stop cheating him out of his money, so she stops trying to say it and starts showing it instead, in lingering kisses and running when she knows she would have walked, just so Idgie knows.
“What are you doing?” she asks, not expecting a forward answer anyway. Idgie just grins at her; the grin that makes her forget about why Idgie is lying about Frank, or swearing during church services, or letting the alcoholics desperate for a drink have a swig of the flask beneath the counter, or even how ridiculous it is to bury a little boy’s arm.
Freedom was a mythical idea she used to dream about at night, something that had no place in her world of structure and safety, but Idgie insisted on it: jumping out of trains, walking through bees, running from her husband, lying under oath, taking risks where she would usually not. Freedom was just a dream until a vagabond with wild hair crept out of the forest and showed her how to live.
Idgie steps closer and Ruth is pinned against the counter, the cool glass of pie containers against her arms.
“I might love you ‘til the day I die,” she feels against her cheek.
She slides her hands around Idgie’s waist, fingers slipping under Idgie’s shirt and smiles, because she knows; she feels the same.
Idgie Threadgoode may go running off sometimes – I’m a free spirit, she tells everyone who ever asks – but she always reaches back, takes Ruth’s hand, and brings her along for the ride.